


the rising storm

by EmmaMae



Series: dangerous men [4]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: High Overseer Martin, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, Post-Game(s), Post-Low Chaos Ending, Royal Spymaster Daud, Suicidal Thoughts, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8060125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaMae/pseuds/EmmaMae
Summary: "and now we're faced with the question - could he be dangerous? Events are going to move quickly now. The storm's rising."  - Havelock's audiograph log, entry #3.Teague Martin was a man who sought nothing but power, an unending thirst for ambition, a man who would stop at nothing to get what he desired. He'd kill for it. He'd burn for it. When a little Empress with a certain darkness in her eyes handed him his redemption, he all but tore it from her hand. But he will have to be careful, hold his hand close to his chest and watch the game unravel before him, to wait for the perfect opportunity.Daud saw him for what he was, and stood firmly at his side, with absolution a distant calling in his heart. With a whole world to conquer at their feet, there is little to stop them... sequel to  when the tides are lowest





	

**Author's Note:**

> HIGHLY RECOMMEND READING 'WHEN THE TIDES ARE LOWEST' FIRST  
> I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this, I have a vague idea so honestly I'm excited to see where these two intriguing characters will take me.  
> Apologies for taking TWO YEARS to post this, it's been sat in my files half-finished for so long it's embarrassing. But since I am now a Creative Writing student, I'll be writing a hell of a lot more!  
> Also I have no idea where I was going with that description, I went a bit mad with ideas, I'm sure I'll change it at a later date.

It had taken little over 48 hours for Martin to be transferred to Dunwall Tower. As he was escorted across the footbridge, cuffs still linking his wrists and jingling lightly with each step, he thought about how the whole process differed to the first time he'd been elected High Overseer. Before, he'd blackmailed and threatened his way through the election. He'd fought, blood staining his hands for perhaps the first time since the highways, and all for a few measly days

It hadn't been exactly what he imagined (not that he was a man of dreams or hopes, no, he'd seen too much for that), what with the whole business with disposing of their enemies, including Corvo. There hadn't much time during Regent Havelock's reign for him to be properly initiated, receive a ceremony, or even confer with the High Oracle. His time as High Overseer was much more like popping into the Abbey, telling the Overseers that they're doing a fine job, then launching off to Kingsparrow island. It was sloppy and completely unprofessional.

Besides, had the Ascending Circle any choice, they wouldn't have allowed him to be High Overseer. He was a nobody, one of the rare Overseers who converted during adulthood, the one Overseer responsible for breaking Corvo out of Coldridge, and who narrowly escaped branding or perhaps executing. In fact, he was fairly sure that he would have been the very last Overseer to be considered. If it hadn't been for Havelock and himself putting a gun to the head of anyone who opposed them, he would never have gotten the position in the first place.

The selecting of a new High Overseer is not a trivial matter, it's a complicated mess of elections and reputations, the final decision is down to the Ascending Circle who weigh up each contender's worth. Without Campbell's black book and the sword at his hip, he would never have gotten himself as far as he did. For all the good it did.

After High Overseer Campbell's abrupt departure from the Abbey (and Martin disappearing behind the walls of Coldridge), the order itself began to fall apart from the inside out. The city ran riot, the Overseers were a wild and untamed force against unseen heresy, a blind massacre in the slums and death in the streets all in the name of spiritual cleansing. It reached a point where Empress Emily Kaldwin the First faced the choice of either wiping the zealots out entirely or electing a new High Overseer to guide them.

It seemed that task was much harder to fulfil than they hoped. 

After the downfall of the Loyalists, and Martin's capture and imprisonment, the ever diligent Lord Protector found his solution. And it led to various members of the Abbey being revealed to be corrupt and, in some cases, a threat to her Majesty. Campbell's black book, it seemed, proved to be just as useful to the young Empress as it had been to Havelock. But what counted was how they used the information. In other words, Coldridge prison accepted a number of surprising names into its custody.

As for the position of High Overseer, each name the Ascending Circle put forward was another name marked in the bloodstained pages of Campbell's book. Even the slightest smudge, a passing comment regarding the Kaldwin name, a half-hearted joke about assassins and blood, and another man was detained in Coldridge.

Trust was scarce in the Lord Protector's eyes. Determined never to be cheated again, never will he allow any harm to come to Emily, he would not take any chances.

When it came to deciding what to do with a man like Teague Martin, an expected suggestion came from the unlikeliest of people.

"No." Corvo had said immediately. "He betrayed us."

"Exactly." Emily had negotiated, her large brown eyes hardening. "He won't make that same mistake again. Teague Martin knows better than most than to cross us a second time. We can control him, and that would mean controlling the Abbey. One less threat to worry about." 

She had placed her small palm over the mark that branded the back of his left hand and their eyes locked. The girl understood more than she let on, a coldness in her misleadingly warm eyes, a look that told of the atrocities she'd seen. Corvo had left to meet with Ascending Circle that same day. It had taken them some convincing, of course, they were talking about the same man who blackmailed and ordered the deaths of several high ranking officials, so they were entitled to be apprehensive. But they agreed. And if blood had been spilt, well, it wasn't mentioned in the official report and no one dared to say anything.

Martin, however, did not need convincing. He had returned to nothing, alive but not quite living, he was more than willing to do something after so long of nothing. And if that meant working for the little Empress, well, then call it penance, though he knew it would be a long time before he could look in Her Majesty's eyes and feel worthy of the trust she placed in him.

In that small slither of time between the transfer to the Tower and the official naming ceremony, Martin did all he could to find out what exactly lead to him, of all people, becoming High Overseer. And what he found he noted down on the pages of an empty ledger. However there wasn't much time for questioning those he came into contact with, or break into Corvo's quarters in hopes of finding out anything more, he was repeatedly told just how tight the day's schedule was already.

Martin was given a brief tour of the Tower, mostly to point out where his lodgings were and the areas he was not permitted access to. There were numerous Walls of Light throughout the Tower, and it was explained to him that he wouldn't be able to pass through the barriers of certain areas, the sparking gate would send a jolt through his nervous system and knock him unconscious, setting off an alarm. It was some kind of new Sokolov technology (apparently the prototype had been invented on the roof of the Hounds Pits, much to Martin's amusement). 

It was also explained that he was not to leave the Tower, other than to the Office of the High Overseer, and even then he had to return to the Tower by sundown. Any exceptions had to be requested two weeks in advance, and it was likely to be rejected.

The leash was tight, chokingly so, but it beat death. Marginally.

His chambers were located in the west wing, where other members of the Royal Court were also lodged. The hallway that ran through the middle of the wing was deathly silent - save for the muffled footsteps of himself, General Tobias, and, the Head Butler, Carr, and Martin's eyes grazed over each doorway and wondered who else had joined the Empress's court of betrayers.

"-and this here is your chambers." Carr stopped and opened the third doorway on the left, gesturing for Martin to enter.

Martin examined the small and slightly sparking coils of wire lining both sides of the doorframe, and the spinning sensor above it, sitting just inside the door. It emitted a low-pitched signal as he passed through it. He murmured: "Huh, it seems more like a cell than anything."

Perhaps that was the point.

General Tobias gave him a heavy look. "You aren't permitted to leave the Tower interior after sunset without authorisation. Departure for the Office of the High Overseer must be scheduled at least two hours beforehand. Access to the north wing is not permitted without authorisation from Her Majesty. We're watching you, High Overseer, do not give us reason to take you back to Coldridge." And with that, General Tobias turned on his heel, leaving a brisk chill in the air that had Martin bristling, glaring after him.

"The tailor will be arriving shortly to make adjustments to the ceremonial coat, and in the meantime a bath has been prepared - I'm sure you'd appreciate a lengthy soak to calm your nerves." Carr then excused himself, saying something about having so much to do, leaving Martin to stand in the centre of the first of the rooms.

His chambers were divided into two rooms, one was a sort of sitting room with a desk settled in one corner, the other room was dominated by a large bed with far too many pillows, and a large ensuite leading just off from the bedroom. He ran his fingertips along the back of a sofa, throws made of velvet, delicate golden embroidery and pearls fastened in patterns, far too many fabrics and cushions to make sitting on it any less uncomfortable. In front of a large marble fireplace was a gathering of plush sofas adorned with silk pillows, a low table sitting amongst the cluster with a silver tray carrying a crystal decanter and matching tumblers, a beautifully woven rug imported from Tyvia settled against the pale carpet.

It was a lovely room, superior by far to all rooms he'd ever boarded in. Filthy back alleys, the back room of a brothel, stinking hovels in the centre of a slum, the Morley army barracks, the Overseer bunks, the Hounds Pits, even the Chamber of Commerce (where he'd been wrapped in Daud's musk, a rotten blanket barely covering them, a slight shiver travelling down his neck as a breeze cut through the damned hole in the roof); none of which remotely compared to the elegance of the Tower. It was almost worth the months of solitude and endless waiting.

The early morning light cast the room in mellow paleness, washing the colour from the fine tapestries and oil paintings, and Martin blinked blearily into the light and down on to the waters of the Wrenhaven. All was blurred and grey, the last tendrils of sea mist fading away, the river itself was dark, almost black, still and undisturbed. He felt the burn of eyes on him as he stood at the tall window, still smeared in the muck of Coldridge and wearing the ill-fitting prison garb he'd been issued, he searched the scene before him yet was unable to spot a single soul. And then he remembered that one morning, over a year ago now, when he'd woken in Daud's arms and the man had told him how the Outsider had spoken to him in his dreams, the feeling Martin had felt then was similar to what he felt now. It was a cool and creeping touch, like cold water dripping down his spine, feather-light fingertips ghosting over his skin.

But there was nothing but the shadow of the river.

Martin undressed quickly, leaving the filthy clothes in a pile in front of the window, and crossed the room to enter the bathroom. Steam had filled the room, and it spilled out on to the plush carpet as he opened the door, a slight smile of anticipation crept across his face. The feeling of easing his body into the hot waters of the bath was beyond compare. In Coldridge, washing was a luxury, and even in those rare moments the water had been cold. The warmth seemed to seep into every corner of his body, flushing his skin pink, and he shivered in delight, stretching his muscles and reclining against the ceramic curve of the bath. He washed slowly, lazily, teasing the dirt and grease from his hair and scrubbing at his skin with a creamy bar of soap. And when someone knocked on the door, he groaned aloud, unwilling to ever be separated from this warmth.

The Tailor was not a man for modesty, Martin thought, as hands pulled pushed and dragged him to the centre of the first of the rooms. A blush crept its way up from his chest all the way to the tips of his ears as the tailor's two young assistants towelled him dry, not a stitch covering him, whilst the tailor laid out his tools on one of the sideboards. The young women then proceeded to dress him in black trousers and shirt, though he insisted on doing the buttons on his shirt himself whilst the smallest of the two fussed with his clerical collar. It was as the tailor draped the ceremonial coat over his shoulders that the door of his chambers opened, and Martin was about to protest, an automatic lecture of basic manners and decency on the tip of his tongue, when Daud stalked into the room.

Cool grey eyes passed over the dark fabric of the coat and he hummed in approval. "Red looks good on you, High Overseer."

"You must be fucking kidding me." Martin growled. "Royal Spymaster?" He shook off the tailor's thin hands, gaining the sharp pain of a pin in his side and a grumble about how little time they had, and approached Daud. He clenched his hand into a fist and punched Daud square in the jaw. "I was in Coldridge for a year. A fucking year. And you couldn't be bothered to drop by to tell me?"

Daud barely flinched, he stood as still as the marble statues in the gallery, his eyes bore a flash of surprise, even anger, before settling to his trademark piercing stare. He gave away nothing, Martin almost laughed at himself for expecting anything else. Daud looked to the tailor, "Can you give us a moment, please?"

It was quiet for a moment whilst they all shuffled out into the hallway, the door gently clicking behind them. Martin's fist clenched tighter with each passing second, itching to hit that scarred face again. "I thought you'd gone, left for Serkonos like we talked about, but no; you were here the whole time! I thought you fucking cared Daud, why didn't you come back?"

"I've been busy."

"Don't give me that shit, you just couldn't face telling me could you? Seeing me in Coldridge whilst you slept in a fucking palace, and you didn't have the balls to even come back to visit me again." Martin spat.

"Oh Martin," Daud stepped forward, hands raised slightly to prevent Martin's fist from flying up again, those calm grey eyes fixed on his. "I wanted to come back, I really did, but it wouldn't have done either of us any good. But what's done is done, you're here now."

Martin stalked away, not wanting to look at Daud's face with the burn of the betrayal scorching his insides. He stood at the window, leaning stubbornly against the frame, blue eyes cast out to the port. It was clear now, a crisp stillness had settled on sun-bleached planks of the boardwalk, the sun was just beginning to peak from behind the clouds.

"I forgot how your Morlish accent creeps back into your voice when you're angry." Daud mused fondly, a slight smile forming on his lips. He regarded the man's frame with affection, despite how slight he had become, despite his ghostly pale skin shadowed with purplish bruises, he was still Martin beneath this unfamiliar and frosty exterior. Although he would never admit it, Daud had missed him. He was used to working alone, he may have never been a man of ambition but he was proud of his place in the world and the work that he did, but it wasn't quite the same without Martin to keep him sane when the night closed in. The quiet nights spent with a glass of whiskey, admiring how Martin glowed in the low light, listening to that smart mouth of his complain about this that or the other. He could listen to that voice for hours, and has upon occasion when the man simply wouldn't shut up, and it was usually in those times that Daud would make him stop, giving that pretty mouth something else to do.

"Don't try to flirt with me Daud, I'm not in the mood." Martin growled in response. "Did you want something from me? I wouldn't want to keep you if you're so busy." 

"I came to make sure you were alright, but perhaps my visit was premature." His smile faded, he knew Martin was being cold because he was hurt, but he knew the man well enough to give him his space when it is needed. Daud turned toward the door, eyes lingering on Martin's trembling figure at the window. "We'll talk later, after the ceremony."

Martin said nothing, refused to even turn to watch him leave, he simply stood motionless at the window as the door clicked shut.

**Author's Note:**

> I probably uploaded this prematurely, I might change the ending a little at a later date


End file.
